Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) by Milo Fowler (paper ebook reader .TXT) 📕

split-second later, the riderless bike slams into the wall of the shipping container with a gong-like clang. The rider hangs suspended and stares wide-eyed through his mask, feet dangling in the air, his chest skewered on Samson's arm.

But he's not dead.

"How many?" Samson demands.

The marauder wheezes, his head drooping.

"How many of you are there?" Samson gives him a shake that makes him cry out.

"Enough," the rider manages. "More than enough." Then he laughs. Because he's insane. "Had a feeling I'd see you again." Blood bubbles out of his mouth and drools down his chin.

Samson drops him to the ground and pivots one blade back into a metal-fingered hand. He grabs the marauder's rifle and staggers after me.

"Let's move." I keep a hold on Shechara and draw my 9mm. Samson's shadow covers us both as we head for a darker, quieter corner of Stack, currently devoid of flames, screams, or gunfire.

"Head on a swivel," Samson says, doing his best to keep his voice low. With our night-vision, it will be impossible for anyone to sneak up on us—as long as we're paying attention to our surroundings. Not looking at the empty saloon and thinking this would be a great opportunity to break inside and take a few liters of whiskey—

"There." Samson points out a row of parked vehicles belonging to the Stackers. The four-door solar jeep looks promising, as long as the battery is charged enough to get us the hell out of here.

We pick up our pace, jogging toward the jeep while keeping to the shadows. Samson climbs behind the wheel and pops the hood for me to take a look underneath. The battery's in good shape, and according to the meter, it should hold enough juice to carry us a hundred kilometers.

I close the hood and lean on it, popping it quietly into place. Then I leap into the backseat behind Shechara. Samson slides one of his metal digits into the ignition and manages to start it up on the first try. He's a handy guy to have around.

We roll out, tires crunching across sand and gravel, the electric engine's low hum barely audible beneath the clashing sounds we leave behind. Samson takes us between two shipping containers, slow and steady, hoping not to draw any unwanted attention.

Wide-open space lies ahead where we'll stand out against the barren terrain. Fingers crossed the marauders will be too busy to notice.

"We could fight," Shechara says out of the blue, her voice near a whisper.

Samson shakes his head. "Doesn't feel right, leaving in the middle of it."

"Shut up and drive," I mutter. "It'll feel right being alive this time tomorrow." Should we be so lucky.

"Stack has never looked for any trouble," Shechara continues. "We brought it on them."

"You didn't have anything to do with this," I counter, about to lose my patience.

"We ran into a couple Wastelanders on our way here," Samson admits. "They followed us, most likely. Hell, they might've been responsible for firing that first missile and destroying the raiders' rig."

That makes no sense at all. Who would want to see all those supplies go up in flames?

"Fire and judgment!" a sudden voice screams. The path ahead is now obstructed by the figure of a large, muscular man sporting a flamethrower. He releases a spurt of liquid fire into the air and laughs, his voice ragged and guttural. "You think you can escape my wrath?"

I stand up and lean on the jeep's roll bar, my 9mm aimed at the lunatic's head. "Let us pass, we'll let you live."

Another laugh and flaming spurt. If he keeps showing off like this, maybe he'll exhaust his supply and not have enough to set us ablaze.

"I have seen the very fires of hell, woman," he growls. "You think a little gun frightens me?"

"How about three?" Samson holds the assault rifle he took off that marauder, and Shechara aims her semiautomatic. "Walk away, pal. Go find somebody else to creep out."

Silence from the dark figure. The flamethrower holds its peace.

"I recognize that voice…" the oversized marauder says at length. "Luther's...bodyguard?"

Samson flicks the headlights on, then off. The marauder flinches and staggers back, blinded for a moment. Samson slams his metal foot onto the accelerator, and the jeep tears away from Stack as fast as it can go, kicking up a screen of dust in our wake.

No one follows us. Not yet, anyway.

"You saw him, right?" Samson rumbles, like he wants to gauge his own sanity.

Of course I saw him. Not someone I've ever wanted to see again or thought I would, not after those UW hoverplanes rained fire outside Eden.

In the glare of the headlights, his face was a mangled mess of scarred facial tissue, the type of damage reserved for third-degree burn victims. His eyes were wild with hate. But that was him. No doubt about it.

"Cain."

8 Sera22 Years After All-Clear

I grab Erik by the shoulder and spin him around as we reach the sunlit lobby of the cube complex. Fortunately, the area is vacant, so no one is there to see an unarmed law enforcer following an overly armed citizen.

"You can't walk out onto the street like that," I tell him.

"Want one?" He offers an assault rifle he took from the security clones.

I grab it, if only to disarm him by fifty percent. "What are you planning to do?"

He shrugs. "Get you someplace safe."

"I don't need you to protect me."

"Didn't you hear? They're rounding up the Twenty. That's us."

I shake my head. "Just a precautionary measure. There's no reason to be upset by it." If my augments were working, I'd be able to tell how elevated his pulse and adrenaline levels are. But even without them, I can clearly see he's amped. "Once things settle down, we'll be able to return to our daily lives."

"Things won't be settling down anytime soon," he mutters, resuming his long strides toward the exit.

"Drop your weapon."

He halts and does a slow about-face like he's unsure what he'll find behind him. "You can't be serious." He blinks